Crystal Baws: 2011 Year Planner
Shat into being by the Big Bang. In and out of great supernovae we were flung in our aeon-long paths in our various pieces across the vacuum; pulled, squashed, spun, sucked, blown and blasted within the great gravitational heartbeats of the void. Through forces so infinite and infinitesimal in their grandeur and probability we landed here, each of us. Via successive processes and advances, both evolutionary and through our understanding of how we came to be and what we are, created this: Wetherspoon’s on a Saturday night. And you'll spend every miserable Saturday in there. Forever.
In April you do a Ouija board with your mates “for a laugh”. Shortly after you start getting the nightmares, the ones that make you feel like your body is being taken over. Lights start going on and off when people leave you in rooms on your own and arms reach out of the shadows trying to grab you and pull you in. You'll hear large crashes upstairs and find no-one's there. By August you'll have fallen into a terrible depression and feel a yawning abyss of madness wrap around what's left of your mind, constantly with the feeling in your head there's something horrible there with you, watching you over your shoulder.
Any Gemini males born in the year 1990 will have a rough February as the anti-Christ assumes the papacy and declares anyone fanny-shat into the world under a specific set of stars should be rounded up, thrown on a spike, bummed senseless and then set on fire. He's looking for the Nazarene. If that's not you Anne Frank it up in the loft until the end of the year.
Cancerians are known to be very sensitive types, and hence like the crab they have the need for a thick armour shell and claws powerful enough to take a child's fingers off. But as Mercury goes into retrograde through March your problems with stress are likely to exacerbate when the emoticon-faced Chinese robot army storms across Europe, firing laser rifles at anything impeding its path. Things get better throughout July though when your memory gets wiped, your language skills are replaced with binary Mandarin and you get plugged into the Chinese Matrix to live an avatar's life. From then on your existence will entail unknowingly powering the gears of the new world order in a pod of reconstituted human jelly. Red is lucky.
You have strong bones and muscles.
The Sun recently formed an adverse angle with Saturn. A similar negative trend with Pluto comes in June when someone puts a cigarette hole in your shell suit and you burst into merciless flames. I may have told you before that Virgoans seem to have a natural affinity with spiritual healing techniques. Unfortunately that was bullshit. My bad. No matter how many crystals you rub on your leathern skin, sobbing yourself dry of tears, forever more you'll resemble Freddy Krueger on crack.
Venus hurtles through the icy, lonely, empty cosmos before arriving in your chart in mid-September. By then though it'll be too late to unsend all those love notes made with letters snipped from magazine headlines. In October, as police interrogate everyone in the office, you ask your prospective lover out on a date after comforting them in your arms and telling them everything would be “all right”. The relationship will last until you first remove your top in front of them and it is revealed you've madly scrawled their name all over your skin with a razor blade.
You were not born of woman, rather you were egg-hatched. Be gone! Your aura makes the charts nebulous.
At first optimistic with a “new start” you find the supposed rungs on the work ladder you think you've been climbing for years are actually made of marshmallow. So it's around June you'll be pressed to make a big decision. At lunch time in the canteen you question whether human beings were meant to wear suits, work 9 to 5, forever crave electrical goods and watch Emmerdale on an eye-bleeding 60” 3D HD screen. Suddenly you'll black out. Your brain will return to its factory settings. In October you'll come to again running through heavy bog-land in the middle of nowhere, carrying a spear and wearing only a rabbit skin nappy.
In January you'll render linear time obsolete when you invent the flux capacitor. After attaching it to your rusty Ford Capri you Richard Hammond it to the future, leaving only a spinning license plate and some burning tyre marks behind you on Maryhill Road. You will spend 3 years basking in the utopian idyll of the 28th Century before returning to our time a minute after you first left. From January onwards life will be dull, grey and devoid of all enjoyment after a drunk bam steals the Capri in the night, tears a hole in time and vanishes in a blinding flash back to when dinosaurs ruled the earth.
Doing your entire Christmas shop at The Barras this year might prove to be a bit of a mistake when viewed in the 20/20 hindsight of a new year. From the possessed Tonka truck you bought your little boy that sinisterly moves around on its own when you're not looking at it, to that foam toy dinosaur that's designed to expand in liquid that your youngest will swallow on Boxing Day. And the bootleg Old Spice aftershave that makes sure Grandad never has to shave ever again after his screaming face slides off fizzing into the sink. Finally those Christmas lights you bought from a plastic crate in the rain will cause an accident that means you won't need a chart for next year. My chart on the other hand says I'll accidentally urinate on the fresh, frosty soil of your grave when I Easy Lionel it home in the early hours of New Year's Day.
Neptune joins forces with Uranus in your 9th Solar House in May and Scotland is unexpectedly hit with a small earthquake. It is then you'll begin to dream of latent, sinister cities built of titan Fibonacci structures whose geometry is all wrong, dripping with thick green slime and covered in nightmarish Cyclopean hieroglyphs. All summer you'll reside naked and alone in your dwelling with the curtains shut, chanting a half-remembered, unholy mantra “Cthulhu fhtagn”. Your catatonic hands will attempt to render in clay that pulpy, tentacled head that makes rags of your sanity in dreams. I implore you: stay away from the sea at the end of December.